A Day in the Life of a Glucose Intolerant Plushie
by s' old fic
Summary: ...Or, the harrowing tale of Spinel and the Shrink.


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Another Day in the Life of a Glucose Intolerant Plushie 

(Or, the Harrowing Tale of Suppi and the Shrink)

A CCS fanfic by Sakura 

Standard disclaimers apply.

Not your usual introspective first person POV.  _  

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      "Have a seat," the man cordially offered, motioning to the high-backed red cushioned chair not far off.  I stared at the seat for a moment before moving towards it and sinking down in its warmth, not minding the fact that it was so worn out that it groaned slightly and almost gave way underneath my weight.  There was a pause while the man settled himself in a chair beside mine, pulling out a pen and a pad of paper and resting them both on his lap.

      "Well now, shall we begin--"

      He gave the pad of paper a cursory glance.  "Spinel Sun."

      "Yes," I mumbled, fearing his next words ---  Spinel?  Spinel _Sun_?  What kind of a name is that?  To my relief he said nothing more; instead, he shifted in his seat and leaned back comfortably, whipping a sheet of paper off the pad with a flourish.  "So --- can I call you Spinel?  Okay?  Good.  Well then, Spinel, tell me when it all began."

      I gulped.

      The tip of his pen rested lightly on the sheet of paper, poised to begin.

      "W-Well," I stammered, "I...I was born with it."

      "Born with?"

      I took a deep breath.  "I don't know what you call it but...  I'd rather refer to it as glucose intolerance."

      "Hmm."  The pen started moving slowly.  "Glucose intolerance.  Interesting.  And have you seeked medical treatment for it?"

      "No.  I've always wanted to, but I've never---  No, not until now."

      "And why is that?"

      "I was afraid nobody would take my case seriously--"

      "Ah," he interrupted, pen halting in mid-stroke.  "I understand what you mean, but your problem, your--" he briefly glanced at the sheet of paper, "--'glucose intolerance' --- though _not _a common case, doesn't mean it's something completely unheard of.  In fact, there have been past studies on the correlation between extremely high sugar levels and fits of insanity--"

      "I-I-INSANITY?!" I squeaked, suddenly stiffening in my chair.

      He smiled then, lightly pushing the glasses up on the bridge of his nose.  He had thin wire frames that gleamed like silver in the light, slightly obscuring his dark gaze.  "I'm sorry, Spinel, I didn't mean to alarm you.  What I meant to say was that your problem--"  And here he eyed the sheet of paper again, "--your so-called 'glucose intolerance', isn't something new."     

      "You mean I can get therapy?" I asked hopefully.

      "Hmm."  The pen resumed its gliding on paper.  "It depends.  I have yet to determine what stage you're in.  For now I need you to tell me everything."

      A sinking feeling started to form itself in the pit of my stomach.  "Everything?"

      "Everything."

      I gulped, looking down at the floor.  "Well, I've been like this for as long as I can remember..."

      There was a pause while he shifted the pad of paper in his lap.  

      "Whenever I eat anything sweet I-I..."  I bowed my head, feeling my face burn.  "I lose it."

      "Hmm" was all he said.

      "I-I... I turn into a maniac.  I hiccup, I laugh, I scream, I go around the room in crazy circles, I run into walls and start looking for the sugar bowl---"

      "More sugar," he echoed absently, tapping the pen lightly against the side of his head.

      I didn't know what the gesture meant and I wasn't keen on asking him what it stood for, so I went on.  "---and when I finally get more 

sugar that's when I start to forget everything."

      "Everything?"

      "Yes.  Everything fades out and after some time I wake up to find myself in places I normally stay away from--"

      Interest suddenly flickered in his dark eyes.  "Like?"

      "Like the kitchen sink."

      "...Hmm."

      "And the sugar bowl itself."

      "I see."

      "And teacups and flowerpots and there was one time I ended up in the medicine cabinet--"

      He nodded at that.  "Good sign."  

      "Eh?"

      "Subconscious search for cure."

      I smiled at him, grateful for once that he understood.  "Not only that, I get this really terrible headache---"

      "A migraine."

      "---yes, yes, a migraine, and it takes me a while to move from where I am because every time I try to get up the world takes a spin--"

      "Hmm," he absently said, turning the pad of paper around in his lap.  

      The room fell silent, save for the soft scratching sounds of pen on paper.

      I uneasily shifted in my seat as he began to speak. "Well.  To me it sounds like your basic hangover."   

      "That's what they say too," I mumbled, "but I'm sure it's something more than that."

      "Well," he cocked his head to one side, "the symptoms definitely pertain to what we --- or rather, _you _call 'glucose intolerance', but I doubt if they could also be signs of a neural disorder--"

      I lifted my eyebrow.  "I beg your pardon?"

      He raised a hand to appease me.  "I'm sorry, that was a bad joke."

      I gaped at him.  "_That _was a joke?!"   

      "Glucose intolerance," he continued as if he hadn't heard anything, "is a sickness that one out of ten thousand people are born with."

      "So?"

      "So, in treating it we must proceed with extreme caution."

      "Exactly in what way," I hesitated, "do you propose to treat me?"

      There was a pause while he leafed through his pad of paper.  "Oh, first we'll be doing tests.  Plenty of them.  If therapy proves useless I suppose we'll have to resort to other forms of treatment..."

      "Like?"

      "It's too early to disclose specifics."

      I gulped.  "And if those 'other forms of treatment' fail?"

      He peered at me over the rims of his glasses.  "Well.  I myself won't be able to tell what will happen then."

      I stared at him in disbelief for a moment, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.  Or do both.  "Doctor, you promised you'd heal me!"

      "Yes, I said I will."  

      "But what you just said--"

      A faint smile lifted his lips.  "What little faith you have, Spinel."

      "I didn't come all the way here just for nothing!"

      "Yes, I'm sure."

      "I want to be cured!" I screamed.  "I _have _to be cured!  I can't stand it anymore!"

      There was a soft riiip as he neatly tore off a page from his pad.  "I say, anyone would get a little testy after spending a night or two in the sugar bowl--"

      "Are you making fun of me?" I bristled.

      He looked at me innocently.  "No Spinel, I was not making fun of you."

      "That's right!" I snapped.  "You--- no, _nobody_ has the right to make fun of me!  You don't know what it's like to have people laughing at you and tossing you little balls of paper to juggle and clapping their hands as if you were this jumping squealing mini-circus act---"

      "Yes, yes, I heard all about that before--"

      "---and then you find yourself waking up in the sugar bowl and feeling those little sticky bits under your back, stuck in your ears, and there's this goddawful stench of tea--"  

      "Earl Grey or Darjeeling?"

      "--and the curtains!  You don't know how long it takes to get out of those horrible stinking red drapes--"

      Something in me had finally snapped, and before I could stop myself I was already rambling on and on about the fireplace, the cabinets, the odds and ends of a neon green and white woolen scarf I found myself hopelessly tangled in --- everything!  The trauma of spending the night in a soup tureen!  The sheer agony of being used as a living bookend and doorstop!  The long hours spent in washing mascara off fur!  

      Ah, the tragedy of being glucose intolerant!  Tears of self-pity stung at my eyes as I continued to howl about how the world was never fair; how it was just fun for everyone else and how nobody ever understood how I felt; how nobody ever cared, how nobody ever tried to help, nobody nobody nobody---

      Suddenly, the doctor clapped his hands and the door to the clinic flew open with a bang, revealing a long-haired woman decked out in a nurse's uniform and lugging a big first aid kit.

      "Doctor!" she gasped for breath, as if she had just run up thirty flights of stairs.

      "Hurry," the doctor calmly said, "he's losing it."

      The nurse lunged towards my chair and set the first aid kit down on the floor with a crash.

      "Hey, what's this---"

      "Now listen to me Spinel---" he began.

      "Don't you 'Spinel' me, you---"

      "---_yes_, I will 'Spinel' you," he cut me off, "and don't worry, we will have you calm down in a moment."  

      The nurse started tossing out thermometers, bandages and syringe needles, finally whipping out something circular in shape and wrapped in foil.  "Doctor, I found the tranquilizer!"

      "Good."  He was leaning back in his chair again and surveying the situation with faint amusement, as if we were all sitting under the shade of a tree, drinking tea and having a jolly time.

      "Now Suppi," the nurse prodded, playfully waving the object in front of my eyes, "say 'aah'!"

      "_Suppi_?!" I echoed incredulously.  "Who're you calling 'Suppi'?"

      "You!  You're Suppi!" she giggled.  She had long brown hair and huge dark eyes that oddly glinted like rubies.  Looking into them, I racked my brain for the right adjective to use.  For some reason 'insane' was the first word that came to mind...

      I turned to glare at the man in the chair beside me.  "Doctor, listen to me --- the last thing I need right now is a tranquilizer, and this woman needs to be--"

      "Now," he ordered, taking up his pen and pad of paper, and before I could say anything more there came the crackle of foil and a ruthless hand snatching me from my seat and lifting me up and in less than a second something flat and about a meter wide and tasting a little bit like sweet cherry stuck itself in my mouth, forcing it wide open and nearly embedding itself at the back of my throat.

      "Eat up, Suppi!" came the nurse's cheerful greeting, and as I choked and pawed at the air helplessly my eyes fell on the pad resting on the doctor's lap.  Then it dawned on me that the whole time I was talking he had been doing nothing else but sketching me --- shy Spinel, tearful Spinel, smiling Spinel, indignant Spinel.  Spinel, head bowed, spilling out his sob story.  Spinel, in the arms of the cooing nurse, choking on a bright red cherry-flavored lollipop.

      "When you calm yourself down," he was saying, "we'll go through your account one more time and determine whether you will require hospitalization and possible CT scans---"

      Like hell I will!  I wanted to scream.  I'll sue you for--- 

      "---and maybe an operation too, if needed.  By the way I'll be prescribing some medicine for---"

      By this time his words were already garbled...  I was losing it fast; my eyes were getting heavy and the overpowering smell and taste of 

cherries was in my mouth, my breath; the sweetness seeming to pour out of my ears, my eyes---  

      Death by sugar.

      I would've screamed but the lollipop was in the way---

      In three seconds flat I was out cold.

      Then.

      As much as I'd like to believe that I just fell into another stupor, a nagging feeling at the back of my head tells me that yes, I probably had yet another one of my attacks and that it was probably one of my wildest performances to date --- snatches of a samba, bits of cotton candy, dancing on an operating table, fencing with scissors, and the sound of applause, hearty, enthusiastic and warm.  

[O.Wa.Ri.]


End file.
